Daisy James - Sunshine After the Rain - a feel good, laugh-out-loud romance

With great difficulty James managed to maintain his composure. He had been asked the same question many times since they had announced the exhibition and his patience was clearly wearing thin.

‘I’m afraid not, madam. This way please. Can I offer you a glass of champagne?’

Evie saw a flash of irritation in his expression as he welcomed the next VIP guest who asked the same question. She smiled to herself as she stepped forward to join the welcoming committee, just in time to see Sam disappear around the corner at the end of the street. A spasm of annoyance shot through her veins. Couldn’t he have stayed to help his father deflect these questions?

Within minutes the gallery was buzzing with activity as the privileged invitees studied the artwork and discussed its merits. Evie’s opening night jitters evaporated as the comments grew ever more complimentary and the little red dots more numerous.

‘It’s going really well, don’t you think?’ cooed Pippa, holding a glass of champagne aloft as she bent forward to whisper in Evie’s ear. ‘I just want to give you a heads-up, though. Avoid that guy in the yellow cravat studying the bronze. He’s just admitted to me that he’s the local bore. I mean, how sad is that!’

‘Who? Do you mean Jules Verbier, the celebrated art critic from Nice?’

‘ That’s Jules Verbier?’

Evie burst into laughter, expelling the last vestiges of her anxiety. ‘Oh, Pippa, I do love you! He’s not the local bore as you so eloquently put it! He’s a locavore.’

‘A locavore? What’s that?’

‘Someone who only eats food that has been produced locally.’

‘Ah. Ooops!’

Still giggling, Evie slotted her arm through Pippa’s and together they made their way towards the canapés. She had just popped a tempura roll in her mouth when there was a loud agonized cry from the front door.

The whole room turned in unison to see who was causing the commotion, expecting to witness a ticketless Fires of Fury devotee being forcibly evicted from the gallery into the downpour beyond by the burly doormen.

But it wasn’t a disappointed fan.

There was a sharp, collective intake of breath as the audience realized that despite his vociferous denials, Jaxx Benson had decided to attend his exhibition after all. For a brief moment, shocked silence reigned until it was punctured by a shrill, anger-infused voice.

‘What the hell is that monstrosity doing in my exhibition?’ screamed Jaxx, his handsome, instantly recognizable face devoid of its usual colour, his lips twisted in anger.

Evie followed the line of his index finger to the magnificent canvas that hung centre-stage and was attracting the most accolades. She could have sold it ten times over, despite it being priced at quadruple the cost of the others.

‘It’s a bloody insult! What exactly is going on here? Wasn’t my art good enough for you upper-class, pompous, so-called art aficionados? I’m getting my lawyers onto this. By the time I’ve finished, James Bradbury Art will be history!’

Evie exchanged a look of confusion and horror with Pippa. A slab of concrete took up residence in her chest and squashed the air from her lungs. She took a step towards Jaxx but James beat her to it.

‘Mr Benson, if you would follow me into my office, I will ensure the unfortunate error is rectified immediately.’

‘I demand that whoever is responsible for this slur on my artistic integrity be dealt with in the strongest way. Where is Evie Johnson? She’s the one who is supposedly in charge of my debut. How could she let this catastrophe happen? The buck has to stop with her.’ Jaxx, his bleached blond eyebrows raised in question, swung his gaze around the silent gallery seeking her out.

At Jaxx’s insistence, every communication in the lead-up to the opening night had been dealt with over the telephone or via email, but as the avid audience’s eyes swung in unison towards Evie he was able to march straight over to where she was standing, his finger jabbing at her chest like a missile.

Heat flooded her body and surged upwards to her cheeks until she was aflame with mortification. It was starting to dawn on her what had happened, but she had no idea how or why.

‘How dare you humiliate me like this? Who does that painting belong to? Why have you substituted it for “Muswell Musings”? Wasn’t it good enough for you? Are you an art critic in your spare time? Or has it been painted by one of your friends, maybe? This is totally unacceptable. It’s …’

Fortunately, James succeeded in interrupting his monologue of ardent objection and guided the livid rock star, and his gobsmacked agent, into his office at the rear of the gallery and closed the door.

The all-consuming silence suddenly broke into a cacophony of excited gossip.

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